I stretch through
degrees of separation
to touch you
and reach you by proxy.
Make a list
to trace back
each turn or full stop.
I savor the taste of the edge.
And my mother would tell you
I don’t mean trouble,
but am just adventurous.

Still,
you’ve got me
on my knees.
And I can’t tell
if I’m begging for the end,
or pleading for more.
And anyway,
how can you uncast
your sideways spell?

We lay bare and blistered bones
down on the greening field.
Let the sun warm them clean again.
Wind whispers,
tell me what I must do.
We put our faith in outside,
because these dreams
are a fog we can’t think through.

The question hangs here.
Which is better?
To continue to be drawn
outward by a rising spring?
Or to dive deep into
the running water
and watch the world widen
from below?

This false choice
need not be made.
And I do myself no favors
with Awakening —
or anything
that might seem
to defend or justify
this wanderlust
(despite the desperate
and desolate end).

Indulge it
in the unspoken page —
we could fill
1,001 graveyards
with these dreams —
and on waking,
busy hands will keep
the devils at bay.
But all the strain
of these constant adaptations
begins to tell.

And I am told
the truth will out —
just like the water’s whispers
rise to roars
as it bursts its banks.
And I am fearful
of such naked words,
but want to welcome
every advance
brought by this
grand turning.

Until we grow daring
and sunkissed loose,
I will trust
in your humility,
your goodness,
your skill with a spade
to keep my feet planted
in the sweet black soil
of the homeland.